


In darkness we descended

by elanorelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:10:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elanorelle/pseuds/elanorelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He tries not to think too hard about the ways Sam's changed since he last saw him, but it's difficult not to notice when it's everywhere: in the set of Sam's jaw and the hard glint in his eyes and the way he holds himself. He's still <i>Sam</i>, that much is clear, but it's been four months and Dean still has no real idea of how his little brother spent all that time.</p><p>(Episode tag 4x01. Originally posted to LJ 26/09/2008.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In darkness we descended

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Dante's _Inferno_ (trans. Sean O'Brien), Canto V.

They sleep separately at first, which throws Dean off a little, because the way it's always happened is this: Dean does something awesome (Sam would say stupid and reckless, but you get the general idea) that almost gets him killed, and afterwards Sam won't leave him alone.

It's happened more times than Dean can count: in Nebraska and Wyoming; the nights after they burned their father's body; after whatever really went down with the Trickster in Florida. Every time, for days or sometimes weeks afterwards, Sam sticks closer than he usually would; silent, reassuring touches all day long and, at night, his body next to Dean's in the bed, knees knocking and the tip of his nose at the curve of Dean's neck.

Dean doesn't mind it. Sure, he calls Sam a girl and a baby, and he complains about his perpetually cold feet and the way he hogs the pillow and kicks the covers off of them both, but what kind of big brother would he be if he didn't? It doesn't mean he minds it, or that it's any less necessary for him as for Sam to feel his brother there, alive and safe and warm against him.

That's the way it's always been, and Dean's a man who relies on familiarity.

But this time, it's different. Two beds in the motel room, and they each keep to their own, even the very first night when they're both lying awake and breathing together; when Dean can tell Sam's remembering the nights that have gone before, and Dean's trying to ground himself in the belief that all this isn't going to slip away again as easily as it was given back to him.

He falls asleep, eventually, but he's not sure that Sam does.

He dreams constantly: that night and every one after. Sometimes, if he's lucky, it's of Sam and the Impala and the sun on his face. More often it's of dark earth and pale faces and rushing winds; the feel of feathers, ghosting fluttersoft against his cheek, and the tight grip of a strong hand on his shoulder.

In the morning the images are blurred and indistinct, and if Sam asks him what he dreamt, he can't say. Sam nods tersely and doesn't press him.

He tries not to think too hard about the ways Sam's changed since he last saw him, but it's difficult not to notice when it's everywhere: in the set of Sam's jaw and the hard glint in his eyes and the way he holds himself. He's still _Sam_ , that much is clear, but it's been four months and Dean still has no real idea of how his little brother spent all that time.

.

He understands a little better when he's looking through Sam's duffel for some clean underwear (and how pissed is he that Sam's filial affection didn't run to keeping all of Dean's clothes for him?) and finds a cheap, one-volume copy of Dante's _Divine Comedy_. Most of the book looks practically unread, but the first hundred pages or so have been turned and thumbed to such an extent that some of them are starting to come loose.

There are notes in the margins, most of which Dean can't make out; sometimes because Sam's handwriting really is that bad, and sometimes because they don't seem to be in English. None of it seems to have been particularly useful, however—Sam's writing is blunt and angry, the way it gets when they're researching a case and getting nowhere fast, and Dean reckons that whatever Sam was looking for, he didn't find it here.

He's still reading when Sam gets back to the motel room, with slumped shoulders and a bag of take-out under one arm. He's in the middle of telling Dean that he couldn't find any decent tacos, so he got Chinese instead, when he sees the book in Dean's hands and his voice dies abruptly.

"Where did you get that?" He says eventually.

"It was in your duffel. Next to a copy of 'Saving Your Brother From Hell for Dummies.'" Sam doesn't smile, and after a moment Dean realises that neither did he. "So, which circle did you have me pegged for, Sammy?"

Sam visibly flinches. "What? Dean, I didn't—"

"I figure myself for one of the first ones, really. Y'know, the Circle of the Lustful, or gluttony maybe. Hopefully not one of the ones near the bottom, though, cos I gotta tell you, eating my own shit? Not exactly on my list of Top Ten Things to Do For All Eternity."

"Dean, that's not funny."

"I look like I'm laughing? Shit-eating is a serious business, Sammy." It's another joke that falls flat in the awkward silence that's between them, and Dean wishes he'd never found the stupid book in the first place.

He tries once more, forces the smile onto his face this time and says, "Dante was a stupid ass, anyway. You ever notice how practically every person he runs into down there is a friend of his? Vindictive little fucker, if you ask me."

Sam doesn't smile, not quite, but his face lightens a little and the moment passes. They eat lemon chicken and sweet 'n' sour pork, television quiet in the background and the patter of rain at the window.

.

Sam takes a shower, after, and Dean tries reading a little more, but it's all just words on a page; meaningless verse and images that don't spark recognition or remembrance.

He gives up, eventually, and takes a look at "Paradise," just out of curiosity, but his head is full of the sound of shattered glass and the beating of wings, so he just lays the book to one side and stares at the television for ten minutes before he realises it's on mute.

Sam takes a long while in the bathroom, and Dean must be more exhausted than he thought because the next thing he knows he's waking from sleep in a darkened room, covers pulled up to his chest. There's a heavy weight at his feet, and it takes him hardly a second to know that it's Sam, both through logical deduction and the fact that it's _Sam_ and Dean has pretty much made it his job to know where he is at all times.

He shifts on the bed, just enough to show Sam that he's awake and listening, and waits for his brother to speak.

It takes a while, but eventually Sam breathes in shakily and says, "I know it was stupid, but I just—" He breaks off, thumbs at the fraying edge of his t-shirt. Starts again. "You were gone. You were _there_ , and there was nothing I could do about it and no way for me to find out what you—what they—" He bows his head, clenches his fist against his thigh. "I had to know, and I couldn't, and this was the only way I could pretend that maybe I did."

Outside, a car with a cracked exhaust stutters by, and there's the rumble of thunder far in the distance. In this motel room, Dean lets the silence stretch out until he finds some words to say.

"It wasn't like that." He means it to be reassuring, but when he's said it he wishes he hadn't said anything at all.

Sam looks over at him sharply. "I thought you said you didn't remember?"

"I don't." He doesn't, not really. There's something sharp at the very edge of his perception—flashes of bright pain, the red-black tang of copper at the back of his throat and in his nose, but nothing he can hold onto. It's a blessing, he tells himself, a small mercy after everything else that's gone down, but he can't help thinking that maybe he's just waiting to remember, and somehow that's just as bad.

He starts again. "I don't remember it, I just— I know it wasn't like that. I don't think it was—it wasn't that _civilised_."

He regrets the words as soon as they're out, because he knows that, to Sam at least, some crazed Italian's idea of hell—ordered and contained, however sick it might be in particulars—is probably preferable to whatever it is that Dean doesn’t remember.

He forgoes saying anything else, knows this isn't getting them anywhere good. He reaches out instead and tugs a little at Sam's hand until Sam shifts and stretches out on the bed next to Dean. His eyes glint a little in the darkness, and Dean can see his profile outlined against the light from the window. The silence is long and too heavy, so Dean flexes his hand in his brother's and says, "Sammy."

Sam doesn't stop staring at the ceiling, but he squeezes Dean's hand back and then moves it until it's lying flat on Sam's chest, Sam's own hand resting on top of it. The whole thing is so ridiculously girly he wants to mock Sam mercilessly for it, except that he can feel the strong beat of Sam's heart under his fingers, and he's worried about what might actually come out if he tries to speak.

His breath hitches as he inhales, and Sam finally turns his head to look at him.

"You should go back to sleep," Sam says, and his voice is quiet and soft in the dark. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"'s okay."

"No, seriously, Dean. You need the rest."

"Look who's talking," Dean says, but his eyes are already closed and he falls asleep to the rhythm of Sam's breathing and the sound of the rain.

.

That night he dreams of grey skies, clear water turning black, and the sound of screaming. When he wakes—sunlight streaming in and Sam lying next to him—he can't remember any of it.


End file.
